How Sherlock Survived the Fall
by Rasial
Summary: Have you been waiting for a fic that doesn't skip over the details of how Sherlock miraculously survived the fall? Here it is: a story that follows Sherlock's experiences from the death of Moriarty to just after the fall, which recounts a scientifically-plausible theory of how he survived. Oneshot from Sherlock's perspective.


The detective cast one last glance at Moriarty. There was no time to check if he was really dead. The tubocurarine was already starting to take effect. It was strange, he almost...regretted...tricking the consulting criminal into taking his own life. He had won the game by playing the Irishman's only weakness ...impulse. It felt like cheating.

He could remember that strange soft-pitched declaration "I'm so changeable!" Moriarty was ruthless enough to do anything to win. Even eat his own gun. But it was more than that. Sherlock shook his head – a stiff, minute action. Moriarty had thought _he_ had won. And as Sherlock was all too aware, for a bored genius, winning was almost as intolerable as losing.

Sherlock feared the man huddled in his own blood on the concrete roof more than anything. Moriarty had taught him the very meaning of the word. Dangerous, unbalanced, he _had_ to killed - no jail would ever hold him. Yet Sherlock knew as he looked at those expressive eyes that would never dance again, that small hunched form in his brash Westwood suit, that on some level he would miss Moriarty. They were strange kindred. Did everyone of their rarefied mental ilk succumb to their own chaos in the end?

He swallowed. All this _sentiment_. No doubt his brain was flooded with endorphins in anticipation of what yet he had to do. He stepped up to the ledge where John would be arriving, his limbs already feeling rubbery. He tightened his scarf around the neck brace he was wearing. The bounce after the fall was more likely to kill him than the initial impact, a head or neck injury...he tried not think about brain damage. Paralysis. It was_ this_ – this calculated _chance_ to survive – or John, LeStrade and Mrs Hudson were all dead.

He ran through his own instructions methodically to calm himself as John pulled up. With his muscles relaxed he would sustain far fewer injuries – it was the tension in one's muscles that caused bones to break. If he limited the variables, he could get away with fractures to his fibulae, some broken ribs. He made sure his coat was unbuttoned so it that it would flutter and reminded himself to move his limbs on the way down to increase wind resistance. Landing stomach-first was essential to lessen and spread the force of impact. He had to cushion the bounce with his internal organs, protecting his back and spinal cord, making use of the concealed body padding he was wearing. St Bart's was only eight flights – the outlook was promising. People had certainly survived worse. He felt an odd need to remind himself of that. Why? Ah. He was, indeed, scared.

He patted the squash-ball in his pocket. He had to fight against the animal fear to tense or struggle.

Strangely, he didn't find himself having to act much on the phone to John. The tears were real. He tried to avoid an adrenaline spike that could undo the tubocurarine's good work. But the_ look_ on John's face. He could see John's body language even from here. Tight jaw. Military posture. But also something _unhinged _about the stance of his shoulders. Sherlock knew, this would be...cruel to him. But this act was not just about fooling John. It was about fooling three snipers. Which meant it had to be believable enough to fool everyone.

_If I don't live, it doesn't matter what they think_. Sherlock told himself...but he couldn't help but lace a hint or two into the phone call: "tell anyone who will listen" and "just a magic trick"... He knew John would replay those words a thousand times in the days to come. He hoped they would be enough to plant a seed of doubt in the one mind that truly mattered.

He threw the phone away. He had to ignore all the danger-bells and instincts and just trust in logic. Logic had rarely let him down.

He closed his eyes and jumped.

The "medical team" he had hired were already there, milling around him, making sure John didn't get too close. He slipped the squash ball from his pocket into his armpit. Moving hurt... his blood was slowly seeping into the pavement. Right fibula cracked, metatarsals in the left foot broken. A right rib and his clavicle, perhaps. Right hip bruised. Head, neck and back all fine. He was elated – but he tried to avoid the adrenaline spike that could send him into shock and, aside from possibly killing him, would ruin the ruse if he started to shake. He prayed that his neuro-muscular junctions remained inhibited.

The homeless network kid on the bike clipped John, giving him a few vital seconds for his pulse to stop in his left arm. The "innocent bystanders" and the med team made sure John didn't get another chance to check his pulse properly. John was hunched over, heavy breathing – he'd know John's breathing pattern anywhere...he had to keep his eyes closed, his body passive. He could hear his friend's shock and grief – the panicked scramble of a doctor too late to heal.

They whisked him away a little _too _quickly – Sherlock hoped John was too badly in shock to notice that this was suspicious – away to Molly who was standing by in the morgue to treat his wounds. His leg would need plaster but hopefully if John demanded to see his body in the morgue Molly would only uncover his face. There would be time later to plan the contingencies.

He concentrated on laying passive, trying not to hear the suppressed whimpers on the edge of John's breath as he was wheeled away. Tried not to hear the keening of his own heart.


End file.
